Adlock Drabble
by Fireloom
Summary: All my sprints of imagination using this fantastic pairing. Most will be less than 1000 words. Rated M for safety. Adlock.
1. The Greatest Mystery

He's a mystery, an enigma, a code to crack.

Even now as his body moves beneath my legs and my nails scratch intricate masterpieces into his chest is he but a being of unknowing. Every time I pry open a door into his soul I find yet another one lying beneath, its locks harder to crack than the last, a barrier hiding himself away from the world as the hardest case to solve. Like he though, I never shy away from a challenge, especially not one as complicated and masterful as _him._

He's infinite, spanning over uncountable truths and lives, each bringing an insurmountable collection of questions to me. He overruns me and my thoughts, he walks beside me even when he's thousands of miles away and over seas and land from me. He speaks to me, telling me about his day, about John and Lestrade and how stupid Anderson was on this case. I laugh and smile and listen to every word. He's my spirit animal or a guardian angel, whatever you'd like to call it, overwatching me and taking care of me. Sometimes he'll warn me of unwanted attention, or tells me someone's life story, or just says to me how much he wishes he were with me again... I almost believe him as well.

He'll whisper too, whisper sweet nothings to me as his hands creep over my body and my own slide down between my legs, his breath dashing against my skin and his curls licking at my neck as he bites my tender flesh, making me wish he could really leave those tender, beautiful, _sexy_ marks. Every moment with him, past, present, and future runs through my head while he pulls me and pushes me to my release and then coos soft and lurid words of love into my ear as my afterglow consumes and envelopes me. When it's over, he's gone, his presence but a fleeting image of my mind, leaving me yearning, wanting and needing him again.

In those spans of quiet months on my own between his visits, I think of what he did for me, did _to_ me and what he will _do_ to me when he comes back. And he does, he always does, when it all gets too hard, when his image fades and his voice dwindles to desperate, almost silent utters, when I need him more than ever. It'll be a time like this, when our first meeting comes around again and we finally make up for the long and tiresome days of separation in hours of timeless, passionate, demanding, and _desperate_ sprints of wild, consuming sex. Our bodies connect and our minds sync, releasing every bit of tension that's seeped its way into our beings as we silently tell each other about all the adventures we had while we were apart. In these moments I feel alive, safe, excited and everything is _right_. When it's over and he goes back home, I still keep him with me as the ghost of a being that walks beside me wherever I go, renewed and vibrant with colour and emotion. He will tell me about his life and i'll listen, like I always do, as I count the endless questions filling my head and plan how I will crack that next locked door.

And so I patiently wait for his next visit.


	2. Invention 13

"Who's playing the frankly _terrible_ Bach?" Mycroft asks with a bitter and slightly condescending tone as he walks from the landing into 221B's living room, looking down at his little brother nestled in his chair, precious violin in hand.

The elder Holmes child is of course, referring to the notes of Johann sebastian Bach's " _Invention 13_ " drifting out from Sherlock's bedroom and into the rest of the flat.

"Irene," Sherlock answers, "and it's not terrible, she's practicing," he defends with an equally condescending tone, even though to an outsider's ear, her rendition of the song is indeed, terrible. To Sherlock however, the song is enchanting; the first two bars of the composition, apart from a lapse in timing or an ill note every now and again, is flawless, the part she's practiced the most.

"I didn't know she plays," Mycroft comments, stepping forward and sitting elegantly in John's old chair, much the opposite to how Sherlock slumps halfway down the backing cousin of his own, feet pressed against the edge of the small coffee table between them.

"Shes quite good in fact," Sherlock continues absently, looking down at the strings of his own instrument. "Though her method is quite unconventional," he adds in a conversational tone. He likes listening to Miss Adler practice, likes to hear her mistakes, consistent in the way they're made but also ever changing and improving, a sense of progress...

"Why? Is it different?" Mycroft enquires as she moves onto the 3rd bar of her third playthrough. She misses a few notes and has to replay them, her fingering sloppy as she tries to correct the indiscretions she made on her last run. Sherlock joins her by absently plucking at his violin along with her tune.

"She can't read music," the detective states, his playing briefly halting as Irene returns to the beginning of the song for the fourth time since Mycroft showed up here; sherlock restarts his plucking with her.

Mycroft frowns at Sherlock. Traditionally taught men such as the Holmes children are, Mycroft knows no other means to learn a classical piece like " _Invention 13_ ", without sheet music. "How does she learn if she can't read?"

"She listens," Sherlock starts, "and watches. She's become adept at learning by ear and eye," he explains. "Watching cover videos and listening to performances... it's how she learns."

As Sherlock speaks, Irene attempts the thoroughly unpracticed 6th and 7th bar, her tempo slowing in parts to accommodate for the unknown chords until she speeds up again in the easier combinations.

"I didn't know people actually do that, does it work?" Mycroft asks, tilting his chin up in question.  
The tune suddenly stops after a particularly fumbled 10th bar, and instead a more professional sounding version of " _Invention 13_ " starts to play after a moment of silence, this time not coming from the thrumming of the piano wires but from squeaky and slightly jarring laptop speakers.

"It works," Sherlock states simply, "she's doing it now." He finishes with a nod of his head toward his bedroom, silently gesturing for Mycroft to listen...

Sherlock likes the song and the original composer, both of them being a large part of his musical childhood, but right now he _despises_ this recording. He could argue that it's just because of the sacrilege that comes with playing such a beautiful piece on tinny, low quality speakers but, in reality, it's because _she's_ not playing it. Even though she stumbles on certain notes and her play style shifts inconsistently each time she repeats the introduction, Sherlock can't help but enjoy her version over all others he's heard.

The recording ceases as the short song ends and Irene's rendition sings out to the living room again. This time, her tempo is slower and even, the notes more artistically pressed just like the previous recording was; she copies it well.

She reaches the 10th bar again but, this time, the song is more consistent in places where she would have otherwise completely stopped before.

"See?" Sherlock asks with a pointed look to Mycroft, "she's improving..."


	3. Red Painted Nails

She paints her nails... It takes the most part of a day to complete, Irene coming back every few hours after each coat dries to apply another.

Sherlock observes her as she goes about her routine, watching the private movements of her hands when she covers her nails in that deep and alluring red colour.

The first thing he notices is the slight tremor in her left hand. It flairs up when in use, like John's. He frowns and wonders what causes the shaking.

Sherlock's first thought is that her left hand is secondary to her dominant right, like most other people. Therefore her left hand is less experienced at performing the delicate task of painting her nails. Simple.

But he isn't right... no, not yet; something is off...

Sherlock considers Irene's behaviour next; she uses her left hand primarily... When she applies makeup, she starts with the left side of her face; when she paints her nails she starts applying to her right hand first.

So, she's left-handed. But that still doesn't explain the tremor...

Sherlock's immediate assumption is that the shake is caused by a repetitive stress injury; the prolonged and frequent use of her left hand in pressuring activities. It is common in most people, even Sherlock, himself has mild repetitive stress injuries, but Irene's seems excessive.

He can tell this by the way Irene stretches her left arm and wrist. She curls her wrist inward to stretch the tendons along her outer knuckle and fingers. Then she moves her wrist in a circular motion before this motion continues along her arm like a wave; this stretches the large ligament on the outer side of her forearm. A stretching out of this group of muscles and ligaments suggests a tightness in the area caused by repeated stressing particular with the first two fingers and thumb on her left hand.

Why does she has this, what does she do to get such a repetitive injury? Apart from general use, Sherlock has not seen Irene performing many tasks that could cause this problem.

Sherlock looks closely at the way Irene grips the brush of the nail polish in her left hand; a practiced and sturdy hold, confident and at ease. Her right not so much...

Irene holds this brush like she would a pencil or pen. Obviously, this could be from the many years of using beauty products; Irene applies makeup with a range of utensils akin to stationery; soft, large brushes to apply blush and foundation; small, delicate and tight packed brushes for her eyeshadow; sharp pencils and pens made of oil and pigment or colored ink for her eyeliner; the almost texter-like shaped lipstick...

Repetitive use like this _could_ cause her injury but... Sherlock still has one more thought on his mind.

He sees _how_ she moves the brush; by moving her wrist for the most part and only using her fingers for exaggerating the swift movement of her wrist or to complete those intricate and small details around her eyes. Sherlock has studied the way many women apply makeup and so far hasn't found any that matches Irene's technique... He compares her method with other hand dominated activities, of which there are many that do not correlate...

Only one comparative fits; a creative hand.

She is a writer... or a painter, or illustrator. He can narrow these down further by looking again at her fingers movements; short and sharp, or fluid and quick, or intricate and ever so tender...

These movements are less strict than most creatures'. This makes Sherlock think that she breaks the norm even in this aspect.

Sherlock tosses up between _writer_ and _sketcher_. Irene now only fits into these two categories. He runs over all the information he has already gathered to try to come to a solid conclusion.

But he can't...

All the evidence points to both, so that's what Sherlock settles with; Irene sketches - with pen, he can assume; Irene writes - again with pen, it's her favourite, then...

Sherlock smiles as the puzzle piece falls into place... Such a hobby suites Irene well; a creative device used to express. He would have otherwise scoffed at the idea, saying that these activities had no purpose in this world but... now that he sees it in Irene, he can't help but feels warmed by the idea; sherlock now can't picture her without this aspect of her private and personal life.

Irene glances to the side and up at him; she sits beside him on the hotel couch as she paints her nails. Sherlock sees her notice his smile. Her eyes lock with his for a long and comfortable moment, her gaze kind and inviting. He assumes from the length of time they share their sights, that Irene is figuring him out just like he did for her a moment before; he lets her. She grins at him, a toothy and happy smile, before she returns to her task. As Sherlock watches with half-lidded eyes, Irene's hands resume their activity.

Contended, thankful... It's what he feels, a new pair of emotions to him. He is thankful to her for inadvertently showing him a new part of herself, thankful to the polish for _being_ a part of her;

thankful for _red painted nails..._


	4. Find me

The subtle, warm shine of embers glowing red in the charred-black fireplace cast dancing hues over the figure strikingly pacing about the room. Fingers splay over the fretless board of precious violin pressed to his shoulder, and bow twirls against the instrument by manipulation of hand trained and tuned to the delicacies of music. A song trills from the strings with fanciful elegance. The walls of Baker Street's apartment 221B soaks the notes into their papered confines and carries the tune down to the landlady in apartment below, while the open window lets free the song upon the flocks of drunken weekenders, some of which stop in their hobbled stride to pay audience to the composer above as he laments his Magnum Opus.

The song is interrupted after an indefinable stretch of time by the sound of lurid text alert. The chords scratch jarring end to the song as fine horsehair, stretched thin, is pulled along string and then away. The phone is retrieved and message read by eyes adept in the art of observation… Fingers precise and calculating rapidly type a reply to bring smirk to lips only used for speech until tonight. The message is sent and phone placed back down.

The room no longer carries notes of lament written from the throws of sentimental attachment but instead, the sounds of hurried packing. In minutes the flat is left empty of song, or sound, or voice. The only life gracing the room is the dimming coals of flames long since died down, and the bright light of messages displayed on the screen flickering with the oscillation of LED pixels. Words dictate the promise of affection bordering on even love, until they fade away with the automatic timing out and relocking of the device.

"Find me." 

"I'm coming."


End file.
